


Mistletoe

by birdafterdark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hair Braiding, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Scars, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdafterdark/pseuds/birdafterdark
Summary: It had been nearly six months — half a year — since he had thrown himself into the unforgiving Seine, and Javert still hadn’t moved out of the convict’s house.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 13
Kudos: 134
Collections: Sewerchat Solstice Exchange 2019





	1. Saturday, December 1, 1832

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voidify](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidify/gifts).



> Oh, Void. You asked for fluff, and I produced ... this. There is quite a bit of angst here, but I promise there are moments of fluff, and I hope those moments warm your heart as much reading them as they did mine while writing them.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Dami for their encouragement and advice, especially regarding what is era-appropriate. 
> 
> Happy Solstice! And Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it.

It had been nearly six months — half a year — since he had thrown himself into the unforgiving Seine, and Javert still hadn’t moved out of the convict’s house.

It had been wholly disheartening when the first thing he saw, after blinking the river water from his eyes, was Valjean’s concerned face floating above him. His first thought was that Hell did exist, after all, and this man’s visage would be tormenting him for eternity. But a demon, even a demon with Valjean’s face, shouldn’t be leaning over him with those concerned eyes. And if his limited church attendance had taught him anything, it was that Hell was a pit of flame and brimstone, so surely demons wouldn’t be sopping wet.

He groaned now, remembering the confusion and panic that had flooded his body at that moment. Fever followed panic, and doubt followed fever, and he passed months in a stupor in Jean Valjean’s guest bedroom. There had been a brief period of hope and clarity, during which he had collected himself and returned to his own flat and tried to put Valjean out of his mind. But then came the stilted conversation with the _Prefet de police_ , who made it abundantly clear that Javert would be taking a leave of absence until the new year, at which time his employment with the _Prefecture_ would be reevaluated.

Without a paycheck, his minimal savings quickly dwindled, and there was no way to afford housing in Paris. He’d previously thought being fished out of the Seine by a criminal he couldn’t bring himself to arrest must be the nadir of his life, that his pride couldn’t possibly sink any lower, but he was wrong. Without an income or a family or even a single friend, Javert was faced with only two options, equally bleak: returning to the Seine or returning to the convict. He chose the convict.

Today, the first of December, marked a month before his reckoning with Gisquet. He stood at Valjean’s window, nursing a cup of black coffee, and watched the snow. It was comforting, how well the snowflakes mirrored the pattern of his thoughts: Sometimes blown about in ceaseless circles, sometimes coming so fast and thick that everything faded to white.

Just then, Valjean and Cosette entered in swirl of flurries, all grins and rosy cheeks, and his train of thought melted away. That was the way of it, of late: When left alone, his life was simply black coffee and white snow and cold, always so cold, but when the convict and his daughter foisted themselves upon him there was an irrepressible intrusion of color and warmth.

Valjean flashed him a grin that held more kindness than he had any business showing his former jailer, then took off with Cosette in the direction of the dining room.

“Toussaint, Javert, come and see!”

He felt himself drawn to the table almost against his will, as if Cosette’s voice had some kind of magnetic effect. She set down her shopping basket and began to draw out bunches of foliage. The leaves were smooth and oval, like those of an olive tree, and the stems were dotted with clusters of plump white berries. He looked questioningly at Valjean, who was beaming.

“It’s mistletoe,” Valjean explained. He had a strangely mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Yes! There were men selling mistletoe at the market. Oh, I was _delighted_. Did you know, Inspector, that the English have a tradition of hanging mistletoe at Christmas — and those who meet underneath it must kiss?”

“No, I was not aware of that. It has yet to come up in police work.” Javert paused, coffee halfway to his lips, as a dreadful thought occurred to him. “Cosette, who exactly are you expecting to meet under the mistletoe in this house?”

Toussaint’s mild voice drifted in from the kitchen, where she was busying herself with preparing tea. “Not to worry, Inspector. No doubt she read about it in those romantic books of hers and is planning to invite Monsieur Marius over.”

The pink deepening on Cosette’s cheeks was no longer from the cold. She occupied herself with inspecting the mistletoe sprigs, pretending not to hear.

Javert was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Valjean was staring at him. His hazel eyes were still twinkling, his nose was as red as Père Noël’s, and snowflakes were melting in his mop of white curls. At times like these, it was difficult to remember that the man in front of him was a hardened criminal, a man who had broken parole and escaped the galleys, a man who had robbed a _child_ , for Christ’s sake.

How was it possible that this was the same person? Could he truly be a good man? Could the law really be mistaken in condemning him?

Javert pushed the thoughts out of his mind. They tormented him at least once a day, and it was always the same maddening circular logic that reached no conclusion. The law said this man deserved arrest, so Javert would arrest him. Eventually. It was no use overthinking it.

He forced himself to meet Valjean’s gaze. When he did, the guard dog inside him, the one whose ears had perked up at the prospect of arrest, flopped to the ground with a satisfied sort of whine and fell fast asleep.

“Well, I read something quite different about mistletoe in my own books,” Valjean said. “In many parts of Europe, it’s traditional for enemies who meet under mistletoe to lay down their weapons and declare a truce.”

The guard dog snapped to attention again, sensing a trick, and something between a snort and a growl escaped Javert’s throat. “Stupid superstitions, the lot of them. It’s just an ugly plant.” He eyed the particularly bushy sprig Cosette was currently wrapping in twine. “And you’re inviting bugs in the house by bringing in all this …. nature.” He spat out the word “nature” like it was something unpleasant.

“It is not ugly!” Cosette would have sounded indignant if she wasn’t infectiously cheerful, humming as she eyed up doorways, assessing their romantic potential. “And bugs are God’s creatures too, Javert. Anyhow, Papa’s trivia is inconsequential. _This_ mistletoe is the kissing kind, not the truce kind.”

“Why not both?” Toussaint asked, entering the dining room with a tray of tea. “And _do_ sit down, Inspector. You will give me a heart attack if you keep hovering in the shadows like that.”

“Both?” Cosette asked, chuckling, as Javert reluctantly sank into the chair next to her. “Toussaint, don’t be silly. Kissing enemies! What a thought.”

Javert chanced a look at Valjean, who was now sitting across from him. He’d poured himself a cup of tea and was looking at Javert, _again_ , a maddening smile on his lips.

“Hate and love can be more similar than you think, young lady,” Toussaint said. And then, under the pretense of collecting Javert’s empty coffee cup, she said very quietly, so that just he could hear: “I expect that’s something you _have_ encountered in your police work, Inspector.”

Javert couldn’t fathom what Toussaint was trying to imply, but he could feel himself blushing anyway. Did she know about his past with Valjean? Was she implying that he … that he … _loved_ him? And was Valjean really trying to win a pardon using folklore about a parasitic plant? He couldn’t bear to look at Valjean at the moment, but it would be too conspicuous to excuse himself so soon after having sat down. Instead, he made a prolonged moment of rubbing his temple, his eyes downcast, trying again to still his swirling thoughts.

Across from him, Valjean cleared his throat. “Well, mistletoe wasn’t all we got at the Christmas market.” Out of the corner of his eye, Javert could see the man’s hands rummaging through the shopping basket. They produced an evergreen wreath and positioned it in the center of the table. The pine branches were wrapped with red silk ribbon, and Valjean placed four small red candlesticks in brass holders amid the branches and a single, thicker white candle in the center.

“We’ll light one candle each Sunday before Christmas,” Valjean said, his mellifluous voice sounding proud, “and the central one on Christmas eve.”

“It will be lovely, Papa,” said Cosette, kissing his cheek as she swept out of the room with an armful of greenery, “but don’t forget that we’re having dinner and Midnight Mass with Monsieur Gillenormand!”

Her departure left an unsettling silence at the table. Javert finally looked up. Valjean was, of course, still looking at him with that piercing gaze. But all the mirth had faded from his eyes; now they looked concerned.

“Javert,” he said softly. “Are you ok? Should I be worried? Are you thinking about the …. the riv-”

Javert cut him off with a huff. “The river” was Valjean’s euphemism for suicide, and he was in no mood to deal with the convict tip-toeing around that subject in his hushed, strangely familial tones.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking about,” he hissed, leaning across the table to bring himself within inches of Valjean’s face; their noses were almost touching. “I’m thinking about how you’re trying to use a stupid peasant’s story and your country charm to make me forget you’re a common thief. But you belong behind bars and I’ll put you there before you get the chance to light a single candle on that damned wreath.”

Valjean flinched as if he’d slapped him. Javert was instantly filled with regret and anger — at Valjean’s incessant kindness, at Toussaint’s puzzling remarks, at Cosette’s relentless joy, but most of all at himself — but didn’t dare take back his vow. He turned his back on the convict and withdrew to his bedroom.

* * *

The knock was barely audible, like a whispered question. Javert sighed.

“Come in.”

Valjean’s entire demeanor had shifted. He seemed smaller, suddenly, and far sadder. “May I sit?” he asked, gesturing at an empty chair next to the bed, where Javert was sitting with his head in his hands.

“I — my god, Valjean, it’s _your_ chair. Why are you asking my permission?” But the man remained standing until he let out a gruff, “ _Sit._ ”

“Javert.” Valjean drew a shaky breath. “I suppose I thought … I hoped … that something had changed, between us. But I would have let you arrest me in June, I would have let you arrest me when you left without a word in September and turned up at my door a week later, and if you must arrest me now, I will not fight you. I am at your mercy. Only … it is _Christmas,_ Javert.”

The inspector made no reply.

“And I thought maybe, it being Christmas, we could wait? Just until the new year?”

“ _God_ , Valjean,” he snapped. “You don’t _get it_ , do you? You’ve never understood.”

“I suppose not,” the other man said, mournfully. “Perhaps … perhaps you could explain it to me?”

Javert studied him. As usual, his anger softened when he met Valjean’s eyes. The convict in his imagination was the Valjean of the galleys, a Valjean capable of robbing a bishop and a child, ruthless and hulking and dangerous. But the Valjean before him was a kindly old man, the mayor who had refused to dismiss him in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the revolutionary who had freed him, the angel who had pulled him from the raging Seine.

“Of _course_ something has changed between us.” He meant for his voice to be gentle, but it came out rougher than he intended. Nevertheless, Valjean seemed pleasantly surprised; the man reached out a shaking hand and set it on Javert’s knee. It took all his effort, but he managed not to jerk away from the touch. “I’ve grown to … look, don’t go telling anyone this, but I’ve grown to … to like you. Your company is … not unpleasant. But, you see, that doesn’t _matter_. My feelings are of no relevance.”

It was plain from the look on Valjean’s face that he did not see.

“If you like me, and you know my crimes were long ago, and that I pose no danger to society, and that everyone else believes Jean Valjean is a dead man, why would you still wish to arrest me?”

Javert made a frustrated noise. “I don’t _wish_ to arrest you, Jean.” He realized, too late, that he’d call the man by his first name, a display of familiarity he loathed himself for. “My god. Why do you think I wanted to die?”

“I was never exactly clear on that, actually—” Valjean broke off at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and then Cosette poked her head around the doorframe.

“My goodness, such serious faces! Well, I’m not sorry to say that you must put aside whatever is troubling you and come to dinner this instant.” Then she was off, a blur of puffy pink fabric headed for the kitchen.

Javert stood, straightened his clothes, and offered a hand to Valjean. He paused at the doorway.

“I did not wish to arrest you. That’s why. I was turning in my resignation to the Almighty.” Valjean opened his mouth, but Javert ensured his silence with a glare. “And that’s all I wish to say about the subject.” 


	2. Sunday, December 2, 1832

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sulphur, thought Javert. Brimstone. The smell of Hell. Where I belong. Instead I’m sitting at the table of a criminal saint listening to Bible stories.

The smell of sulphur lingered as Valjean touched the flame to the first red candle and shook out the match. _Sulphur_ , thought Javert. _Brimstone. The smell of Hell. Where I belong. Instead I’m sitting at the table of a criminal saint listening to Bible stories._

The hazel eyes met his from across the wreath and held them for a meaningful moment.

“The first Sunday of Advent,” said Valjean, “is a day for reflecting upon hope.”

While Valjean spoke about the birth of Christ bringing hope to the world, Javert watched the flame, flickering but steady, blue at the center, slowly turning the wick into ash. He’d said he would arrest Valjean before he could light a single candle, and yet here they were.

“Hope,” Valjean was saying, “never deserts us. Even in our darkest moments, when the night sky seems devoid of stars, when we feel like we’re drowning in a cold river — even then there is hope for a better future.”

Javert’s heart was beating in double time. _How dare he,_ he thought, _how_ dare _he bring that up, and with his daughter here, and Toussaint, when I can’t dare say anything_ —

“Sometimes we find it in the strangest of places,” Valjean continued, speaking slowly now. “There was once a time when I thought my life held nothing but darkness. I was alone in the world, and aside from one duty I had sworn to perform, I had no plans for a future. And then — “ here the hazel eyes moved from Javert’s face to Cosette’s — “then I found a little girl in the woods. A poor, ragged, shivering thing. I had been intending to help her, I swore to her mother I would — but I thought I’d take her to an orphanage, or find a nice family. I had no idea I’d keep her with me, or that _she_ would turn out to help _me_ , to be my future.” Valjean wiped a tear from his eye as Cosette bounded out of her chair to wrap him in her arms.

“Oh, _Papa_ ,” she sighed.

“Cosette,” he whispered, holding her tightly. “You saved me, you know that? You taught me how to love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Papa! You’ve always known how to love. No, don’t protest — I simply won’t accept it.”

Javert averted his eyes from the intimate, emotional display and wondered if he should leave the room, but Valjean, seeming to read his thoughts, spoke again.

“For the first time since my youth, I had a family. And then we welcomed Toussaint into our home, and it would not be a home without her. And now … now I feel we have a fourth member of our little family.”

Javert was suddenly, painfully aware of three pairs of eyes focusing on him. “Wh — wait, you mean _me_?”

“Of course he means you, silly,” said a giggling Cosette, brushing a wavy strand of hair out of her eyes.

Javert had no idea what to do. Toussaint was watching with a little smirk. Cosette was still standing next to Valjean, looking earnestly at him as though expecting something. And Valjean … it was hard to bring himself to look at Valjean’s face, but when he did, he saw that the old man was still crying, but smiling at the same time, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a kindly sort of way.

“I’m — I — I’m — but — well —” Javert sputtered.

The sound of Valjean’s booming laughter startled him. “I’ve left the Inspector speechless,” he declared. “That’s alright, Javert, you needn’t say anything. I simply wanted you to know how I feel.”

“And me,” said Cosette. “My father will need someone to look after him, after the wedding. You have no idea how much it pleases me that he found a nice man like you.”

“That he — a … a _nice_ —? Cosette, that’s very kind, but I’m hardly a nice man.” After a moment’s pause, he added, rather resentfully, “And I wouldn’t say he ‘found me.’ If anything, _I_ found _him_.”

“I admit that I don’t know you very well,” said an undaunted Cosette, “but if my father likes you, I know you must be good.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“I’m afraid I’m _not_ ,” she replied, in a tone that declared the matter settled.

When the grandfather clock tolled nine, Cosette and Toussaint said their goodnights and left the two men at the table.

Javert waited until he heard Cosette’s door close.

“Valjean, _what in God’s name_ —”

“Shhhh.” Valjean was rummaging in a drawer and turned around with a brass snuffer. He handed it to Javert. “You can do the honors. And I know you said you were going to arrest me. I am ready.”

Javert stared, holding the snuffer dumbly.

“But do put the candle out first. I suspect Cosette will want to continue with the wreath when I’m gone, so we must preserve what’s left of the candlestick.”

Javert hissed. “What are you playing at, Valjean?”

“Inspector. The candle.”

“ _Fine_.” He slammed the snuffer down over the flame, knocking the candle askew.

“Rather more forceful than necessary, but thank you,” the old man said. “I’m not ‘playing at’ anything, Javert. You said you wished to arrest me before I lit a single candle. We’re slightly behind schedule, but nevertheless. I am ready.”

“I explicitly said I did _not_ wish to arrest you.”

“Ah.” Valjean’s eyes were downcast; he appeared to be examining his hands in minute detail. “That is true. And yet … I do not wish for you to … well, to ‘resign.’”

The silence stretched out like an infinite, dizzying gulf below them. Javert felt like he was again on a precipice, and he was just as confused as the last time. He wished he could just make the torment, those maddening circular thoughts, _stop_.

_He’s a criminal._

_But he’s a kind man._

_The law says he belongs in jail. Or at the gallows._

_The law must be wrong._

_But the law_ can’t _be wrong._

_Without the law, what am I? What has my life been?_

“Javert?”

Somehow, while he was deep in thought, Valjean had crossed the room without him noticing. Now he knelt next to where Javert was sitting. His eyes were rimmed with red, still shining and wet. He was close enough that Javert could smell him — a clean scent, like soap, one that brought back unwanted memories of the days, weeks, months after the barricade fell, when gentle hands felt his forehead for fever and brought soup to his bedside and smoothed his hair like he was a child —

He swallowed, and, remembering his humiliation but also Valjean’s tenderness, could feel tears pricking at his own eyes. 

He stood up abruptly.

“I won’t arrest you tonight.”

Valjean, who had also stood and backed away a bit, gave him a wary look. Javert snorted impatiently.

“I also have no intention of ‘resigning’ tonight, not that it’s any business of yours.” _I suppose ‘resign’ has replaced ‘the river’ as the new euphemism, then,_ he thought. Just before exiting the room, he turned around and grabbed Valjean roughly by the shoulders, drawing him close.

“But before next week,” he growled, “I’ll have you in cuffs.”


	3. Sunday, December 9, 1932

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another whiff of sulphur. Another flame. Another broken vow. Another night with those hazel eyes watching him. Challenging him, almost.

Another whiff of sulphur. Another flame. Another broken vow. Another night with those hazel eyes watching him. Challenging him, almost.

The second week of Advent, apparently, was about peace.

Cosette was dining with the Gillenormands and Valjean had given Toussaint the night off. Javert had tried, after an awkward dinner, to slip off to bed, but Valjean insisted on holding the little ritual anyway. He’d moved the wreath from the dining table into a smaller room with fluffy arm chairs and a crackling fire.

Javert had been handed a cup of cocoa and settled down by the fire, ready to pretend to listen to another Bible story. That’s what it always came down to, with Valjean. Bible stories.

Valjean set down his own cocoa with a decisive thud.

“Prison is hell on Earth.”

Javert nearly choked. Valjean’s voice was harsh, aggressive, as if moments earlier they had been arguing, rather than enjoying a simple meal and talking about the weather.

“Is that in the Bible?” Javert asked, stupidly, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Valjean ignored the question. Instead, he began tugging at his cravat, which, much to Javert’s annoyance, had already come loose. He threw the strip of fabric aggressively to the floor, and Javert raised an eyebrow. Then Valjean’s fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat, and Javert was too flustered to stay quiet.

“Valjean. What are you doing?”

The man ignored him, dropping the waistcoat to the floor. Then he removed his suspenders and began tugging his shirt free from his waistband.

“Val _JEAN_!” A horrified Javert wanted to avert his eyes, but couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.

The balled-up shirt hit the floor. Javert’s mouth had gone dry. He swallowed hard.

Valjean was standing over him, bare-chested, somehow nearly as muscular as he’d been in his bagne days. His skin looked soft in the warm glow of the fire, Javert thought at first, but then Valjean grabbed him and pulled him out of the comfort of the chair. Forced to look in the ex-convict’s face, he could see, now, where the iron collar had left scars around his neck, and he winced and looked away.

A rough hand seized his chin and turned his face back.

“How dare you look away, now? When it was you who did this to me?” The fire was reflected in Valjean’s eyes, and for the first time since he’d emerged dripping and half-drowned from the Seine, Javert saw the Valjean of the prison hulks standing before him. He was taller than Valjean, and younger, and an officer of the law, but still he felt very small and vulnerable, like a kitten someone had grabbed by the scruff of its neck.

Valjean had been so gentle and tender and sensitive for the past few months that Javert had almost forgotten the man’s formidable strength. The abrupt change in his demeanor left him unsettled. He could handle angry-Valjean, if necessary, and he was learning how to handle gentle-Valjean. But the fact that both coexisted in the same man was troubling, and he couldn’t understand what he had done that had flipped a switch and turned one into the other.

“And surely you remember the whips?” Valjean turned, slowly, and the firelight illuminated the angry red scars that criss-crossed his back. They were scars of varying age, bearing witness to year after year of imprisonment and horrifying punishment. Despite the fire, Javert shivered.

“Valjean … “ he hated himself for how small and pleading his voice sounded.

Valjean turned around and stared up into Javert’s eyes for a moment, defiantly, with the look a fearless and unbroken prisoner might give a guard, and then sat back down. All the fire seemed to leave him, then.

“I don’t want to be harsh with you,” he said, more to the fireplace than to Javert, “but, you see, prison is harsh. Prison _guards_ are harsh. You talk about arresting me like it’s this abstract thing, and I need you to remember that it is not. Prison is hell, a very real, physical hell. I don’t expect you to understand that, but I have to try. And if you arrest me now, I won’t just be going to hell on Earth. I won’t be going _anywhere_ on Earth, this time.”

He looked back at Javert. “You can arrest me. I’ve told you time and again that I won’t fight you. But you should have full knowledge of what you’re doing.”

Javert couldn’t reply. He could only think of how it felt to bark orders, to crack a whip, to see burly, terrifying men forced to obey him, even as a scrawny young man, and then, before even that, the memories that he tried to forget, the ones that still made it into his dreams, of being on the other side of the system … the sting of a whip on his back, when the rope was still larger than he was … the blood …

He must have fainted. He couldn’t recall.

The first thing he was aware of, when he came to, was that a pair of arms were wrapped around him. For the briefest of moments, he thought they were his mother’s arms. But they were far too strong, and he was not lying on the cold dirt floor of a prison cell but in a warm bed near a roaring fire.

The second thing he was aware of was that he was crying. No, he realized with horror. Not crying. _Sobbing_.

“Shhhh,” came a worried voice, and a hand stroked his head softly.

Javert had never been more embarrassed in his entire life.

He tried to scramble up, out of the bed, away from the arms that must have carried him there, but they held him tightly. He shuddered, and tried to stifle his sobs, which instead came out in gasping whimpers that were somehow even _more_ embarrassing.

He could not remember the last time he cried like this. He must have been a boy.

“Please,” he managed to get out, between shuddering sobs, “please. Go.”

Valjean was quiet for a moment, then, “I cannot leave you like this.”

“Pl-please. Please. Let me .. Let me have some dig …. dignity. If … if I have any l-left.”

“You will always have dignity in my eyes, Javert. This does not subtract from it.”

Javert snorted.

“I am serious.”

“Perhaps, but you are wr-wrong.”

Another silence, then: “I should not have done that. That was cruel.”

Javert let out a humorless laugh. “Cruel? No. No. I am the one who has been cr-cruel.”

“You have only ever done your duty. I cannot blame you for that.”

“G-God _dammit_ , Valjean. Stop being such a s-saint.”

“Stop trying to talk,” he said softly, and his fingers found Javert’s cheeks, wiping away some of the tears. “Just breathe, Javert. Breathe.”

He had no choice but to lay there, trying to steady his breathing. “I will never be able to look you in the eye again.”

Valjean took his chin again, much gentler this time, and tilted it toward him. Javert, utterly humiliated, met his eyes. He wanted to melt away, to vanish, to die …

Valjean was crying, too — but then, when was he not? — and when he saw that, Javert felt a pang in his chest that he couldn’t explain, and his breathing became ragged again.

“No,” Valjean whispered, wiping Javert’s tears again, and he cupped his hand around the back of Javert’s head and bent down until their foreheads met. Javert thought he should pull away, but he didn’t have the energy. “I should not have done that,” Valjean said again, voice cracking.

“You had every right to do that, and far more, Valjean.”

“I was scared,” Valjean admitted, in a barely audible whisper. “Of going back. Of Cosette knowing the truth. Of … of death. I just wanted you to understand how horrible it is, being in prison.”

Javert paused for a beat, his heart fluttering. He had never spoken of it before, but — what the hell, he’d already thoroughly humiliated himself in front of this man —

“I … I do understand. I’ve been there, too, you know.”

Valjean pulled his head back. The look he gave Javert was indecipherable.

“That is not the same. A guard cannot understand what it is like to be one of the guarded.”

“I was not referring to my time as a guard.”

Valjean gave him a long, penetrating look. “I don’t understand,” he said, slowly. “Surely you were never a criminal. What are you talking about?”

Javert sighed. “Never mind. It is getting late. You should go to bed.”

He waited until Valjean reached the door, then said, “I still intend to arrest you, you know.”

He was surprised to find that he did not mean it at all.

“I know,” said Valjean, softly. “Good night, Javert. Be at peace.”


	4. Sunday, December 16, 1832

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So! Papa has told us all about his childhood Christmases.” It was true; the theme for the third Sunday was, it seemed, joy, and Valjean had spoken of how his deeply impoverished family had still managed to make the holidays a joyous occasion. “What about you, Inspector? What were yours like?”

Three flames flickering amid the pine branches, the faint sounds of Toussaint doing dishes in the next room, Cosette and Valjean sweetly one-upping each other with holiday memories. Javert could live in this moment. He was practically invisible to the happy creatures chattering away about Christmases past, and that was more than ok with him.

“And, oh, that _first_ Christmas!” Cosette sighed, gazing at her father with complete adoration. “Inspector, you should have seen it. The other girls at the inn, they always got shiny new ten-sou coins in their shoes. And I thought Père Noël must always forget about me, because I never got anything. But I still put my shoe in the fireplace — ‘shoe’ is hardly the word for it; it was the most pathetic little clog you’ve ever seen — and that year that Papa showed up, I got _a gold Louis_. The other girls were so jealous! You should have seen their faces! And my face, I’m sure.”

She stopped a moment, looking askew at her father’s candlelit face. “You know, I haven’t thought of that Christmas in years. That … that must have been you, Papa, who put that coin in my shoe.”

Valjean smiled and gave the humblest of nods. Cosette’s face seemed to be teetering between a grin and tears, but she settled, thankfully, on beaming.

“And remember Catherine? Papa bought me the most beautiful doll,” she added, helpfully, to Javert. “Just the most gorgeous doll. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned.”

She sighed contentedly, making the candle flames waver a bit, and then turned abruptly to Javert.

“So! Papa has told us all about his childhood Christmases.” It was true; the theme for the third Sunday was, it seemed, joy, and Valjean had spoken of how his deeply impoverished family had still managed to make the holidays a joyous occasion. “What about you, Inspector? What were yours like?”

Cosette was looking at him with huge, innocent eyes. Valjean’s expression mirrored hers: A bit more weary, but one of genuine curiosity. Javert cleared his throat, stalling for time.

“Well. Uh. I had some lovely holidays in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Has your father told you about how the locals —”

“No, no, I don’t want to hear about your boring adult Christmas. Unless … “ she furrowed her brow. “Unless you grew up in Montreuil?”

“No. No, I only moved there to serve as chief of police.”

“So … where did you grow up?”

Her earnestness was hard to resist. He cleared his throat again.

“I grew up in Paris.”

“Oh! How fun! I bet Christmases here were so delightful!” She fixed those blue eyes on him again, waiting for him to go on.

Valjean, for his part, seemed a bit surprised at Javert’s answer.

“I didn’t know you were a native Parisian, Javert.”

Javert made a small noise of assent, then reached absent-mindedly for candle snuffer Valjean had laid out and began to fidget with it. The silence stretched on until Cosette gave a little giggle, like the sound of tiny bells jingling, and said, “Well? I know you like your mystery, Inspector, but surely you can tell us just a bit about Christmas. Just one story! I do love hearing about children at Christmas.”

He felt his throat closing up in a sort of panic. He looked helplessly at Valjean, but of course the man had no idea why he was nervous. His expression had grown a bit more confused, but was still open and curious. He looked from Javert to his daughter and back again, and then tried, cautiously, to help.

“Perhaps … perhaps the Inspector’s family did not celebrate Christmas, Cosette,” he said. It was more a question than a statement.

“Oh!” The girl blushed a little. “Is that so? Are you Jewish, perhaps, Inspector? I’d love to hear about the Jewish trad—”

“I am not Jewish.” It was Javert’s turn to sigh. He sensed that this was an occasion in which it might be better to lie, but he had never been good at lying; he was honest to a fault.

He directed his words at the evergreen wreath and its shimmering candles, unable to look directly into either pair of earnest eyes. Eyes that were, he knew, anticipating a very different kind of story.

“Well,” he began, digging for a memory that one could reasonably call joyful, “I was born on Christmas eve. Or so my mother always told me.”

“Oh!” Cosette sounded more delighted than she had any business being. “Oh, so your birthday is coming up! And you were a Christmas baby! How delightful.”

“Mmmm,” Javert said.

“So it must have been an extra special time of year, for you. Your birthday _and_ Christmas!”

“I guess you could say that.” He spun the snuffer around in one direction, then the other.

“So what were your Christmas meals like?” Cosette prompted.

“Okay, from what I remember.”

The girl snorted. “ _‘Okay’_? What kind of description is that? What kind of food did you eat? Papa told us how they saved up all the best ingredients for their Christmas stew. Tell me something like _that_ ,” she implored.

Spin to the left. Spin to the right. Spin to the left. _Try to remember_. _Say something nice._ “Look, I really don’t know,” he sighed. “All I can remember is that the guards gave us extra food on Christmas, so we were happy.”

It took him a moment to realize what he had said that caused Valjean to inhale sharply and Cosette’s eyes to go wide as saucers.

“The — the _guards_?” she spluttered.

_Shit. Goddammit, Javert. Why didn’t you just lie?_

He stopped spinning the snuffer and drew his finger absent-mindedly along its length, weighing his words carefully. “Yes. The guards at La Force.”

“The _prison_?”

“Yes, Cosette. The prison.”

For once, the girl was silent. When he looked up, he saw that she was watching him wordlessly, her eyebrows knit together. He could not bring himself to look at Valjean.

“But,” Cosette protested softly, “but you’re a policeman.”

That made him chuckle. “Well, I am _now_. I wasn’t _born_ a police officer.”

“I would never have known,” Valjean murmured. Javert wasn’t sure if that was a joke about him not being born with a truncheon already in hand or a remark about the unlikelihood of his childhood lodgings, but he didn’t ask. Perhaps it was both.

“So you … you got sent to jail as a kid?”

“Cosette!” Valjean murmured sharply.

“I’m just asking!”

“Perhaps the Inspector doesn’t wish to discuss it.”

The candles were now dripping onto the wreath, leaving little pools of red wax. Remembering what Valjean had said about persevering the candlesticks, he snuffed them out. As he put out the third one, he said, “I didn’t get sent to jail as a kid. I was born there.”

He met Cosette’s eyes again. “My mother was a fortune-teller,” he said. “My father was a felon. I never met him.” He could hear the wind howling outside; a blizzard was raging. Inside was silence. “I live with my mother until I was seven.”

“What happened when you were seven?”

“My mother died.”

“Oh. I’m … I’m sorry, Inspector.”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“So where did you go then?”

“Out.”

“‘Out’? Out where?”

“Out of the prison.”

“But where did you live?”

“Here and there. I ran messages for the police, did other odd jobs for them. Some of them would let me stay in their houses for a while. Sometimes I could spend the night at the police station. I made do.”

“So that’s how you ended up in the police.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“But … why would you want to join the police? When you grew up with them guarding you? I can’t imagine they were terribly nice.”

“Cosette,” Valjean interrupted, gently but firmly, “It’s time for bed.”

Cosette didn’t protest. She kissed her father on the cheek, as always. “Goodnight, Papa.”

Then she paused, crossed to the other side of the table, and laid a small hand on Javert’s shoulder. He jumped — he hadn’t been expecting that — and stared at her. “Goodnight, Uncle Javert. If I may call you that.”

“I … yes, you may call me that if you wish,” he said, because he didn’t know what else he could possibly say to that.

The silence that followed her departure seemed infinite. Javert couldn’t say whether it lasted ten seconds or ten minutes or an hour. Finally, for the first time since the word “guards” had escaped his lips, he looked at Valjean.

They said nothing, but an understanding deeper than words passed between them.

Javert stood up first, clearing his throat.

“This is your last week. I’m arresting you before you light that fourth candle and talk about … glory, or celebration, or whatever the hell next week is.”

Valjean gave him a wry smile. “Love.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Next week is love.”

“Oh, God help me,” Javert said, and turned toward the stairs.


	5. Sunday, December 23, 1832

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is soft,” Valjean murmured. “And it’s so lovely like this. You should braid it sometimes, you know. It’d be handsome. The criminals wouldn’t be able to resist you. They’d turn themselves in, just to get arrested by you.”
> 
> “You’re drunk, Valjean.”

An ice storm hit Paris in the middle of the day, coating everything in glass. Through the windows they could see tree branches drooping under the weight, their red berries encased in thick layers of ice. Icicles clung to every surface like some kind of frozen wonderland. The city was unnaturally silent that evening; no creature seemed willing to leave its den or burrow. 

But within a certain house on Rue Plumet, four faces were flushed with laughter and four candle flames were ablaze. Cosette had played “Entre le bœuf et l'âne gris” on the piano, and even Javert sang along, tone-deaf as he was. Valjean had, quite uncharacteristically, had enough wine to become a bit tipsy, and proposed that Cosette braid the Inspector’s hair in the way she did her own.

“Don’t you think he’d look handsome?” Valjean asked, his cheeks a rosy pink.

“Oh, _yes,_ ” said Cosette, “he’s especially attractive when he gets that scowl on his face. Yes, yes, that one! The one you’re doing right now!” she screamed, pointing at him and laughing so hard she nearly tumbled off the piano bench.

Javert crossed his arms. “I believe you both have overindulged.”

Cosette mimicked him, lowering her voice and saying seriously, “‘I believe you both have overindulged,’” causing fits of laughter in Valjean and Toussaint. “Honestly, what do you see in him, father?”

“I think it’s the hair,” Valjean said, dreamily. “So long. And … luscious. So? Will you braid it?”

“Of course I’ll braid it! If the Inspector will let me, that is.”

Javert didn’t realize he was scowling again until Cosette mimicked the expression back to him, her nose all bunched up, and then contorted her face into an exaggerated pout. “ _Please?_ ”

Toussaint excused herself for the night, giving him a moment to collect himself before Cosette started back up. “ _Please_ , Inspector?”

Those _eyes_. So big, so blue, so earnest.

“Okay.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the shrieks of excitement that followed. “But I want it to be understood that I’m doing this for _you_ , and not your father.”

She bounded toward him and grabbed his shoulders — well, she reached for his shoulders, but her hands found his elbows instead — and guided him toward the piano bench.

“Sit,” she ordered, before making a quick trip to her room and returning with some accoutrements, humming to herself.

She untied his hair gently, spreading it out over his shoulders. “Oooooh, it’s so _soft_ , Papa. And thick.”

“It’s just hair,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

She took her hairbrush from the bundle of items she’d placed on the bench and drew it though his hair. He felt ridiculous, like a horse having its mane brushed for some formal event. Valjean was watching with a stupid smile on his face, which irritated him — but when Cosette stopped brushing, he found himself abruptly worried about that smile fading away.

“Surely you’re not done yet?” he asked.

“Of course not! I haven’t even started braiding,” Cosette giggled. “So you like this, do you?”

“No! I was just … surprised, that’s all.”

“Mmmm. You know, Inspector, it’s nice to be cared for. Enjoying it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She began to divide his hair into segments. The way her fingers weaved them gentle, brushing his scalp here and there, keeping the hair taught but never pulling, felt like a memory. She’d been at it for several moments before he surprised himself by saying, “My mother used to do this.”

Her fingers paused for a moment, then began to work again. He was ashamed of the outburst — he rarely spoke before thinking it through; what had happened? — but then he was rewarded by a warm look from Valjean that drove every anxiety from his mind.

“So you had long hair even as a kid,” the man said, that stupid grin growing even larger. “A little baby Inspector with long hair. How cute.”

Javert snorted.

Cosette had reached the end of his hair and paused, holding the braid in place for a moment, and then gave a soft, joyous little sound. “Papa! Come here and hold the Inspector’s hair so it doesn’t fall out. I need to get something.”

Valjean walked behind him and took the hair, and Cosette ran off God knows where. They could hear her rummaging through something, still humming.

“It _is_ soft,” Valjean murmured. “And it’s so lovely like this. You should braid it sometimes, you know. It’d be handsome. The criminals wouldn’t be able to resist you. They’d turn themselves in, just to get arrested by you.”

“You’re drunk, Valjean.”

Cosette came back, holding a length of red satin ribbon and grinning from ear to ear.

“No.”

“ _Please?”_ She pouted again. “Just one little bow, on the end.”

Why was it impossible to say no to this child?

“Fine.”

When the bow was tied, she stood back to admire her handiwork. “Yes. Father was right. You _are_ handsome, when you aren’t scowling.”

Javert could feel his face growing hot.

“Right, well, I must get some sleep. And you two should, too! Remember, tomorrow is Christmas eve, and we have _le Réveillon de Noël_ and Midnight Mass!”

After she’d gone to bed, Valjean sat next to him on the piano bench. “You really do look handsome, Javert,” he murmured. “And I’m not drunk.”

“Please. A hog in a silk waistcoat is still a hog.”

Valjean frowned. “Are you calling yourself a hog? Or are you calling me one?”

A small, wry smile played on his lips, and before he could stop himself, Javert had laid one enormous hand on Valjean’s cheek. He wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised.

“I could never call you a hog.”

He felt strange, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his hand, but he was reluctant to withdraw it, so he moved it a bit to the left, tangling his fingers in Valjean’s curls.

“Your hair is quite soft, too, you know.”

He would have done anything, absolutely anything, to keep Valjean gazing at him the way he did then. His stomach was flopping around like a fish, but it was, somehow, not unpleasant. He felt a strange desire to be closer to Valjean, and began to lean forward, but at that moment he heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh — !”

He pulled his hand back a little too quickly, taking a few strands of Valjean’s hair with it. He heard the old man curse underneath his breath.

Cosette was standing there in her nightgown, mid-staircase, her hair disheveled, her mouth forming a perfectly round O.

“I was — I left my hairbrush — doesn’t matter, I’ll get it in the morning — didn’t mean to interrupt — sorry!” she squeaked, and ran back up the stairs before either of them could say a word.

“Er.” Javert twined the silver strands around his fingers, pulled them tight, turning a fingertip white. “I supposed we should go to bed.”

“Yes.”

He was halfway to his room when Valjean called, “Inspector?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve lit all the candles. In the wreath.”

He paused. “Not the central one.”

“That one’s for Christmas.”

“So?”

“Do you intend to arrest me on Christmas day?”

He hesitated. “I do not make a habit of informing criminals of their upcoming arrest dates.”

“I see. Sleep well, Inspector.”

“Goodnight, Jean.”


	6. Monday, December 24, 1832

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birds in my lungs, fish in my stomach, it’s a whole damn menagerie in here, Javert thought, angrily.

The walk to old Gillenormand’s house was a harrowing experience. The three of them slipped frequently on the icy roads, grabbing at each other’s arms, at freezing tree trunks, at the facades of buildings. Before long, they were holding hands, with Valjean in the middle, and moving in small, cautious steps. By the time they arrived at the mansion, they were bruised but merry, their laughter creating clouds of warm air before them.

The Gillenormand home was bustling; there was no other word for it. It was lavishly decorated, garlands and ribbons and candles and crèches adorning every surface. The place was thick with Gillenormand relatives, and Cosette and that booby of a fiancé she had flitted among them, constantly smiling. Marius, it seemed, was doing significantly better, though he still leaned heavily on his cane.

Valjean and Javert were mostly quiet, taking it all in. There was more food there than Javert had ever seen in one place: roast chestnuts and truffles and tiny chocolates and piles of fruits, and much talk of the feast to come: foie gras, and roasted capon, and rabbit terrine, and garlic soup, and escargot, and goose, and of course a cheese course, and then _bûche de Noël_ , and, to top it all off, clementines. He felt full just hearing about it. The most appealing part, to him, was the clementine; oranges and similar fruits were a delicacy he could rarely afford, and his mouth watered at the thought. But how would anyone have room left for clementines after all that indulgence?

In the afternoon, the house grew silent; everyone retired to their bedchambers to nap in preparation for the long night ahead. Mass at midnight, apparently, and then feasting until some ungodly hour. Javert had never participated in a Christmas ritual like this, or in any Christmas rituals at all, save annually volunteering to work through the season for a little extra coin and partaking in the roast hen his porter offered. The entire month had felt surreal, like living in a wild dream.

He tried to rest, because it was expected of him, but he could not. He rolled this way and that on the bed, and spent long hours staring at the ceiling. January 1 was coming, and he did not know what it would bring. He no longer had even the vaguest intention of arrest Valjean. But what did that mean for his future? Could he be a police officer and let a known criminal go? Could he live with that? Could he … _not_ be a police officer? Even if he wanted to stay at his job, it was not at all clear that Gisquet would let him. But what was he, if not a police officer? He found that he could not answer the question.

He dozed briefly, and dreamed of icy waters, and then flames reflected in hazel eyes. At 10 p.m, he gave up, and dressed himself in his nicest outfit.

He sat in front of a gilded mirror and tried twice to braid his hair as Cosette had done, but he succeed only in making it a mess; he poked around a bit and found a hairbrush, then gathered his hair into its usual queue. He tied it with a navy ribbon Cosette had lent him that morning. (“It matches your eyes,” she’d said. “And your uniform!”)

At 10:30 p.m., an hour before he was supposed to be be up, he crept downstairs. He made his way to the front room, where large windows were adorned with garlands of pine branches, and watched the snow fluttering softly in the halos of the street lamps, then drifting out of view.

A small cough broke the stillness, and he gasped, his heart skipping a beat. He had been sure he was alone.

“Inspector. You should be sleeping.”

His eyes could make out a vaguely Valjean-shaped shadow emerging from the darkest corner of the room.

“So should you.”

Soon Valjean was at his side, and they both stared silently into the night. It was cold near the window, and a chill crept down Javert’s back.

“I tried to braid my hair, you know,” he said, apropos of nothing, then immediately cringed at himself.

Jean Valjean was giving him that soft, stupid smile again. “I see that you didn’t succeed. But it looks nice, nevertheless.”

“So do you.” The words flew out of him before he could stop them, like they had wings, like they were creatures with their own minds, determined to embarrass him. But it was true: Valjean was in a pleasant shade of green that complimented his hazel eyes, with an embroidered silk waistcoat featuring small crimson roses that surely cost far more than any item Javert had ever owned in his life. He was sure that Cosette must have chosen this outfit, but it was no matter. The waistcoat wasn’t what he was enamored with, anyway.

Valjean was smiling, still, despite Javert’s stupid, stumbling attempts at conversation. His curls framed his face; his eyes were twinkling in the low light. Javert felt his stomach flopping again.

 _Birds in my lungs, fish in my stomach, it’s a whole damn menagerie in here_ , he thought, angrily.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“It’s your birthday, is it not?”

“I … oh, well, yes. I suppose it is.”

“I got you a present.”

The fish, flopping around again. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t even remembered that it was his birthday.

“You really didn’t need to. I don’t exactly celebrate birthdays.”

Valjean looked a bit sheepish. “It’s nothing much. I mean, really, nothing at all. You didn’t give me a lot of time to prepare.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a clementine, round and plump, and handed it to Javert.

“I brought it from home. I didn’t realize Gillenormand would have piles of them lying around. It kind of takes away the allure, you know.” Valjean hesitated, fidgeting with the buttons on his jacket. “I … I don’t know what it was like in La Force,” he said softly, his voice the verbal equivalent of someone testing unknown terrain with the lightest step, unsure if it will hold. When Javert said nothing, he continued, “But in Toulon, they gave us oranges on Christmas. It was the only time we got fruit. It was special.” It was hard to tell in the darkness, but it looked like Valjean cringed, after that. “It was a stupid idea. Forgive me. I just — “

“Oh, do shut up, Valjean,” said an exasperated Javert. He set the clementine gingerly on a nearby table. Then, not quite sure what to do or say, he reached for Valjean’s hands. He just meant to stop him from fidgeting, but the man’s fingers were warm in his own, and trembling a little, and he didn’t want to let go.

“I love it,” he said quietly, giving his hands a squeeze, and Valjean was smiling at him again, and the fish was back, more energetic than ever, and he did not know what to do.

The clock chimed 11. Valjean’s eyes darted across Javert’s face, as if he was searching for something. “It’s almost Christmas.”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

The clock’s ticking seemed louder than before, each second ringing in Javert’s ears. He looked in Valjean’s hazel eyes, which were warm, but belied a hint of trepidation. He looked out the window, at the snow, at the streetlights, at the stars. He looked at the clementine sitting on the table. He looked at Valjean’s hands, which he was still holding, which were still trembling, ever-so-slightly. Then he looked up. Then he laughed.

“Did you engineer this, Jean?”

“Engineer what?”

“The mistletoe.”

Valjean followed his gaze to see the sprig dangling above them, a choice one, with the greenest foliage and the plumpest berries. He chuckled, to.

“I promise you, I did not.”

“Well.” Javert sighed. “Just this once, I’ll humor your farmer’s wisdom. Truce?”

Valjean smiled. Not the shy, anxious smile he usually gave Javert, but a full grin this time.

“Truce.”

Javert couldn’t help smiling himself, then remembered how terrifying he looked when he smiled — like a tiger, someone had once told him — and dropped Valjean’s hands quickly, covering his mouth and looking away. That smile — it had never bothered him before, he’d even been proud of it, but now —

He heard an impatient noise, and looked questioningly back at Valjean. It had sounded … surprisingly feminine, and young, and he followed Valjean’s gaze to find exactly what he had dreaded: A curly haired girl, leaning over a stair railing, and a freckly boy behind her, both staring in their direction.

All pretense of hiding abandoned, Cosette straightened up. “Well?” she demanded.

“Well what?” asked Valjean. “And you two should still be asleep.”

“So should you,” said Marius.

“You need it more than us,” Cosette added. “You’re old men, after all.”

“So come on!” said Marius, clapping his hands twice, as if at a dog. “Get to it!”

“Get to … what, exactly?” Javert asked.

“The _kiss_ ,” the younger pair said in unison.

Valjean was beet-red, contrasting nicely with his waistcoat. “Cosette! The Inspector has no interest in kissing me! Your romantic stories are all well and good for young, beautiful people like you and your Marius, or silly old fools like his grandfather, but leave us out of it! You’re not aware of it, but we have a complicated history, and Javert has taken this opportunity to put it behind us, and here you come harassing him at such a nice moment —”

“Good Lord, Valjean,” Javert sighed, cutting him off. “I do believe I told you to shut up. And it’s bold of you, you know, to decide whether or not I have any interest in kissing you.”

Valjean’s mouth fell open.

“Good,” Javert said, “I expect that will help.”

He heard Cosette stifle a giggle.

He had no idea what he was doing, but it no longer mattered. One hand found its way into Valjean’s curls again, the other to his waist, pulling him nearer, he still smelled of soap, and maybe a bit of clementine, or was he dreaming that bit?, and his hazel eyes were even more gorgeous when they were surprised, and now their chests were touching and Valjean’s heart was beating as fast as his was, and Valjean was wrapping his arms around him, too, and they bumped noses, and Javert heard himself giggle like a schoolgirl, and Valjean was blushing more, how was that even possible? And then their lips met, and he never wanted to let go, he could live in this moment for an eternity, and he heard Cosette make a happy little sigh, and Marius let out a whistle, and suddenly he knew the answer to his question — he didn’t need to be a police officer, not when he had this.

He wasn’t quite sure what “this” was, but it didn’t matter, it was warm and it was safe and it was home.


End file.
